


We're slow dancing in a burning room

by Darke_Eco_Freak



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Mild Gore, Mild Suicidal Thoughts, Multi, Wade's pan and poly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 13:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15950729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darke_Eco_Freak/pseuds/Darke_Eco_Freak
Summary: Everyone's got one big love in their lives, one person that fills them up and makes them forget all the worst parts of themselves. Vanessa was Wade's, his forever girl, his dream girl, but she wasn't the only one. Cause sometimes your heart's too big for one person, or you just grow lots of em and each heart's got that one person it loves. Wade's not sure if that's lucky, or a disease he should get checked out, for now he'll say he's pretty damn lucky.





	We're slow dancing in a burning room

They’re not a romantic couple, not the one that’d get featured in a Valentine’s rom-com or show up on a Hallmark card, but they don't need those things cause damn it, they love each other. Wade loves Vanessa, he loves her more than he’s loved anyone else in his life. She’s his dream girl, his one and only, and he likes to think he's her forever girl. She gets him, he gets her, they fit together so perfect that Wade's not even afraid of things being too good to be true because it is true.  

In between the sex and the merc work and the not making rent on time and all the other shit in their life, Wade’s happy with her. She makes him _happy_. Waking up in her arms, with her face pressed against his neck and her leg thrown over his hip, is the best fucking thing. Having someone there in the mornings, someone who's not gonna kick him out or leave when they realise where they are is, it's out of this world. 

Wade can wake up to Ness holding him, or he can come home to her. He can sneak back into the apartment at 4am, grimy and exhausted and just a little bloody, and she'll be there waiting for him. She’ll _be_ there, sitting in the dark by the window, face in shadows and wearing one of his shirts, and he’ll get hit all over again. By how much he loves her and how much she loves him, because even though she’s mad, even though she’s ready to throw something at his head, she still waited up. Wade can’t remember anyone else ever doing that for him.

Ness is incredible, she puts up with him and his moods and his problems, goes as far as to say it’s not his fault. Not really, their lives were just shit, but hers was worse.

So yeah, not a typical rom-com duo, but Wade tries. Sometimes. Like tonight.

Tonight, is special cause he thinks it should be. It's not an anniversary or a birthday but it's special because he hasn't had any jobs that ran late and kept him away for a whole month, and Ness hasn't had any shitty clients in weeks. She says it's cause they all know her mercenary boyfriend will boil their balls, he says it's cause they know _she'll_ boil their balls. 

Tonight, three am on a balmy Wednesday in August, is when Wade sets their little corner table with plates and knives and forks. He has a candle going, a flowery one that has the whole apartment smelling like some vague plant, and he’s waiting. Dinner’s in the oven, keeping warm, and he’s waiting for his girl to get home.

Three am, he’s on the counter, playing with a knife and his phone. He's got the new pokemon app and he's determined to get more fucking pokemon than Weasel. 

Three thirty, he’s on the bed, upside down doing crunches cause why not? He's gotta keep in shape somehow, and he's been slacking on his sit reps in favour of some incredible sex. 

Four am, he’s flat on the floor, counting the glow-in-the-dark stars they stuck up there after their third date and before he moved in. He won them at the arcade, after a job, and Ness asked for them, so he put them up.

Four fifteen and he’s drowsing on himself when the door opens. He's got a hand on his gun and another wiping the sleep from his eyes before he realises it's her, Ness. She's dressed in a slinky black number, carrying her sparkly silver heels in her hand, and looks incredible standing there. Like she stepped right out of his dreams. 

“Were you waiting up for me?” Ness asks, voice soft, liquid in the dark apartment. Wade can almost feel it wrapping around him and rubbing against his cheek, like a strawberry scented kiss.

“Yeah, happy Wednesday baby,” he says around a yawn, throwing his arms open for a hug, even though he’s on the floor, who cares? Not Ness, she drops her bag on the counter and kneels down to hug him.

Well, it’s more of a half hug cause she stays on her knees, but she smooches him on the cheek too and that’s even better. Wade can just make out her face in the almost dark, the streetlight outside is more’n bright enough. Her eyes are tired, those bags are definitely Gucci, and there’s a little strain around her mouth, tonight was exhausting for her.

“Happy Wednesday,” she laughs, resting her head on his shoulder as he sits up.

They stay like that for a while, her leaning into him, him petting her hair, it’s really growing out. She feels good in his arms, warm and solid, and she smells like sweat and cheap perfume and whatever they put on the catwalk to help the girls not fall. Ness’ told him but he always forgets, floor shit isn’t the number one thing on his mind when he visits her at work.

“Made you breakfast-dinner,” he mumbles after their while, rocking her slowly, just a side to side thing, nothing fancy.

Ness makes a noise against his shoulder, feels it more’n he hears it, and he takes it as " _Don’t want any food. Sleeby time_ ". A good boyfriend would lift her up and tuck her into bed right about now, get her shoes off, get her out of her too-tight dress and into something softer. A good boyfriend might even get out a make-up wipe and get her make-up off before he crawls into bed with her.

Wade’s not a good boyfriend though, a _great_ one.

He _knows_ Ness, and after all these months he’d like to think he's a great boyfriend. Wade knows Ness won’t go to sleep if he tucks her in right now, too many years of falling asleep in shitty places and after sex. She can’t fall asleep just like that, she needs some easing first. Sometimes it’s a hard fuck, up against the wall or on the edge of the bed, and Wade can do that. They’re both more’n a little fucked up and sex is easier than therapy and words, if she wants to get fucked to sleep, then he can do that.

Not right now though, she’s too tired, so Wade does the second-best thing. He drags her into his lap, thighs across his, and rocks her slow and steady. And when she snuffles against his shoulder, he uses his phone to turn on the stereo he bought her last month, a nice one that they can use an app with. Ness likes music and Wade had the money.

Only a little fiddling and he finds one of those late-night stations, something quiet without any heavy bass or hard voices. And then Wade keeps rocking her, hums along to the beat and smiles to himself.

The singer’s crooning about nothing hurting his baby and Wade couldn’t agree more. He’d protect his woman with his life, easy, cause Ness is everything he never thought he deserved. She’s crazy, like him, and always gets his stupid references, doesn’t get annoyed either. She listens to his mindless, rambling chatter and just ignores it or takes it right in stride. 

When he’s having a bad day, she drags him off to a street market and makes him pick out the weirdest looking thing there. Then she’ll buy other things and drag him back home, _home_ , to cook whatever it was. Doesn’t matter if she has to find a recipe online and figure it out on the fly, she’ll cook it and they’ll both eat it, and somewhere between all that, Wade’ll feel better. Even if whatever it is tastes like cat piss and they both spit it out and order Chinese instead.

And when she’s having a bad day, well, he’ll take her out to the gun range and show her how to take out some targets. They’ll spend hours out there, plugging away until she feels better, or the owner decides it’s time to kick them out. She’s actually a pretty good shot now and Wade’s thinking about getting her a piece, nothing big. He wants to get her something for when he's not there, cause Ness is a big girl, she can take care of herself, but Wade wants to be super sure she'll be okay. 

They’ll talk about it later, next week or something. For now, Wade’s scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed cause she’s breathing all sleep-deep and knocked out. She’s a nice weight in his arms, always is, and quiet when he sets her down in their bed.

Then he’s a good boyfriend, gets her shoes off and sticks them in the rack, gets her dress off and hangs it on the hanger. He can’t find her make-up wipes, but they’ve got baby wipes and those work, kinda, and he just gives her the shirt he was wearing. He closes the curtains, double checks the bolt on the door, and chucks their breakfast-dinner in the fridge.

He’s cuddled up next to her when he remembers the candle and gets back out to blow it out and turns off the stereo. Five minutes later and he’s back in bed for real this time, arm over her hip, and humming that song as he falls asleep.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, Wade isn’t the worst motherfucker in the world, that probably goes to one of the Avengers or a villain or something. And Deadpool’s no hero but he sure as fuck ain’t a villain, so, he pays Dopinder’s bail and calls in a favour to get that whole record cleared. It’s actually easier than he thought it’d be, less expensive too, and Wade never tells Dopinder that it was him.

He’s not entirely sure why either. Bail and record expunction are top tier blackmail material, or favour material, whatever. Wade could have free rides for life if he tattled, but where’s the fun in that?

Before the Monster Factory fuck up, he made a decent amount running merc work, _now_ he’s raking in the stacks. Deadpool’s a pretty big name in the business these days and he’s pretty good at what he does, not the _best_ , but y’know, good enough. He can afford to pay for his rides, and tip too, tip pretty damn good if he does say so himself.

Where was he going with this? Oh right, biggest motherfucker!

Yeah, he pays Dopinder’s bail and wipes his record and practically hires him as Deadpool's exclusive get-away driver. He’s always there when Wade calls, always gets away from whoever’s following them, and always stops for tacos. He’s great. He’s so great Wade even introduces him to Ness, who loves him too, doesn’t call him cause the club’s right down the road but promises she will if she needs to.

Wade’s waiting for him right now actually, in an alley, surrounded by a job well done. He’s got a broken tibia and six holes in his lungs but those are healing nicely, and his client will be paying just as nicely. He took care of these scumbags a whole week ahead of schedule, there’s gotta be a speed bonus in there somewhere.

He’s nodding along to the music in his head when a canary yellow cab pulls up at the mouth of the alley. Wade throws up a severed hand, not his for once, and waves it until the headlights turn off. He should probably get up and get in the cab but the ground’s pretty comfy, a little slick and a whole lot smelly, but he’s had worse.

Ha, he’s had so much worse, and the headless torso makes a pretty great pillow.

“Pool?” Dopinder calls and Wade hears him walking down and whispering something to himself as he picks his way past the bodies. There are a lot of bodies, seven out here with them, twenty more back in the warehouse.

Dopinder’s a trooper though, he doesn’t vomit, doesn’t start crying, just grimaces when he realises Wade’s lounging on a limbless body. Not the worst he’s found but not the best, this is a nice patch of middle ground and Wade would love to share it. Probably shouldn’t though, he definitely saw some rat shit before he lopped off this guy’s legs and who knows if Dopinder can survive a brush with lepto.

“Do you need help?” Dopinder asks, surreptitiously looking for cuts in the suit and missing pieces. That’s what Wade likes about this guy, he’s nice, he’s discreet and he actually cares whether Wade’s in one piece or not. Dopinder’s seen him missing arms, legs, his whole chest and several organs, and knows he’ll survive, but he never stops worrying.

It’s…nice, in a horror movie kinda way. Even Ness got over it after the first year, now she only gives him a mild sigh whenever she comes home and finds his suit in shreds and body looking like he lost a fight with Satan’s woodchipper. Sometimes Wade thinks the guy’ll worry himself into an early grave, then he’ll have to wear a real suit and bring more flowers than the cab can hold, and wait who’ll drive the cab if Dopinder’s dead?

Wade? Boo, not fun, he hates driving. He also hates the idea of Dopinder dying, it’s icky, like touching a wet piece of gum under a restroom toilet seat. Dopinder dying is nearly as bad as Ness dying, it’s not allowed.

“You know, you can call me Wade,” he says out loud instead of in his continued inner monologue. Awkward. Eh, not really.

“I-oh, I prefer DP though,” Dopinder mumbles, looking anywhere but Wade’s face and huh. Well that’s new, little weird, but that’s on him for forgetting.

Dopinder never knew him… _before_ , not like Wease and Ness and the guys at Sister Margie’s. There’s no _Wade Winston Wilson_ for Dopinder to know, no military haircut and distinctly Canadian charm, just this suit and this face and this Deadpool. Yeah, yeah Wade can understand, some days he forgets that his face didn’t always look like kitty took a shit on it, some days he forgets the _mask_ isn’t his face.

In his defence, the thing is freaky responsive, gets all of his expressions across just fine, and let’s not forget, it’s much handsomer than his real face. There’s a lot to be said for the seduction of the unknown, Dopinder knows what’s underneath the mask, he always has, but he never once freaked out. Which is…nice.

Hmm.

“Well DP it is my friend, help me up?” Wade asks, sticking his hand out, his own hand this time, and noticing how Dopinder puts his back into dragging him up. Which y’know, understandable, he’s carrying what? Forty, forty-five pounds of equipment here? And Dopinder’s not a big guy, kinda scrawny really, but he’s got a cute face and those curls are so precious.

He’s not the kinda guy Wade would’ve fucked back in spec ops, definitely not after he got out and found the merc crowd, but maybe now? They’ve got a good thing going here, merc and get-away driver, Dopinder doesn’t hate his face, Ness likes keeping things open. It could work, with a little finesse, a little style, it could work just fine.

“How was the mission?” Dopinder asks when they’re finally settled in the cab.

“Wonderful,” Wade sighs, melting into the warm leather seats as they pull out of the alley.

Then, they don’t talk, don’t chat, just ride in silence while whatever new pop song warbles quietly at them. And that’s another thing that’s nice about Dopinder, he never pushes, never asks, never makes Wade do things he doesn’t wanna do. Ness doesn’t either but she makes him want to be better than he is, Wade wants to be worthy of her, like some schmoopy rom-com protag.

Dopinder doesn’t make him wanna be anything but Deadpool. A killer for hire, a merc with a mouth, it’s okay to be those things with Dopinder cause there’s absolutely no judgement. It’s really nice.

“You’re really nice, you know that? I’m glad I got into your cab that day Dopinder,” Wade murmurs, sleepy but not sleeby, he knows what he’s saying, and he wants to say it.

Ness likes to joke around and say he’s just a five-year-old with big boy money, and most of the time he agrees with her. Wade’s just a big, vulgar kid with big boy money and big boy toys, and he’s fine with that, he likes being a kid at heart. Except when it comes to feelings, those, those are adult things and they’re the only adult thing he’ll actually talk about.

The people he loves deserve to hear that, and he needs to say it. He’s gotta make up for all those years when he was an angry, abused kid that didn’t know what to say when the girl he liked kissed him and said she loved him. He’s gotta say it for that spec op agent in Jacksonville who ran like a fucking coward when his squad member, when _Michael_ , said he loved him. Wade’s gotta say it now cause he didn’t before and that’s on him.

“I love you, thank you for always being there for me and for helping me pick up all my pieces,” Wade says, quiet but not whisper quiet. He’s just being quiet because it’s three am and everything else is quiet, including Dopinder.

“You don’t have to say it back, I understand, but I wanted to make sure you knew because you’re special, to me,” he adds, reaching out and stroking the side of Dopinder’s face with the same hand he broke a man’s jaw with.

There’s blood soaked into these gloves, his own, other sons of bitches, and more of his, but Dopinder doesn’t seem to care. He keeps those pretty brown eyes on the road but leans his cute face into Wade’s touch, a soft little smile playing on those sweet lips. Wade wonders what it would be like to kiss them, if they’d taste like daffodil daydream smelt, sweet and floral and pretty.

Maybe they can do that someday, kisses and hugs and filthy, disgusting sex in the backseat of this cab, but not yet. There’s the whole seduction process, the flowers, the late-night taco dates, the high-speed chases in and out of traffic. There’s telling Ness too and figuring out how to divide his time fairly when he’s out of the country so much for work, but they can make this happen.

Wade knows they can.

“You’re special to me too Pool boy,” Dopinder says, glancing at him when they come to a red light, and for the first time, he takes one hand off the wheel. Wade just stares as Dopinder laces their fingers together over the middle space, what’s it even called? L-space? Yeah it’s probably L-space.

They’re holding hands in L-space, and they stay holding hands as the light turns green and they pull away smooth as butter on a warm pancake. Oh, he’d kill for some pancakes right now, a whole stack with butter and proper Canadian maple syrup.

But holding hands is nice too. Very chaste, very elegant.

They hold hands the whole way to Sister M’s, Wade singing whatever song pops up in his head and dancing in his seat, Dopinder listening with that soft little smile. It’s nice, it’s really nice.

* * *

Ness dies. She dies. She’s fucking dead. In the ground. D-E-A-D, **_Dead_**.

And Wade can’t follow her.

Bullet in the brain, no. Stomach full of bleach, acid, explosives, no-pe. Drowning. Burning. Exploding. Freezing. Dismemberment and bleeding out. No, nope, nada, nilch, capital Fucking No.

He’s tried everything, done every last thing he can think of, but he’s alive. His fucking job is killing people, putting them out of someone else’s misery, and he can’t do the same thing for himself.

Because what’s the point? What’s the point of living without her?

She was his forever girl, he was her forever boy, and now forever’s done and why the fuck did he think the writers would let him have this? Nothing ever goes right for sad old Deadpool. Not his childhood, not spec ops, not his Ness. He still has the fucking cancer, even though the whole first act of his first movie was dedicated to getting rid of the fucking stuff. 

Colossus “ _Call me Piotr_ ” is a good guy, really good, and Dopinder’s good too. Both of them have been trying so hard with him, and Wade knows he’s hurting them, but fuck, isn’t that how it goes? Get close to Deadpool and suffer for it? It’s probably a curse, bets on who gave him this one in this universe.

If he had his boxes here, one of em might be pointing out how sad this little pity party of his is, and he’d point right back how he didn’t give a fuck. He’s allowed to wallow. Two months aren't enough to grieve properly, especially since he spent the first one tracking down that fucker’s whole gang. All of em, every last man, woman, and gender ambiguous one of em.

The killing had been soothing, repetitive. Find a mark, kill a mark, move on to another mark. Then he moved onto offing himself for a whole two weeks, trying every last trick in the book and hoping it stuck. It never did because how was he supposed to have a movie if he died in the first act anyway? Somewhere in between all that he’d gotten Ness buried, got her a nice plot in a fancy cemetery across town, and hasn’t visited her since.

Now his dream girl is resting in a velvet lined casket, wearing the dress she’d been looking at for their wedding. They never did get around to it after he got back, marriage hadn’t been the important thing back then. Him being there, touching her, kissing her, that had been important. Then it was them looking at new apartments, then it was thinking about her going to a couple college classes, and then kids.

Marriage hadn’t been important until it was completely off the table, but Wade made sure Ness got her white dress and her bouquet of hyacinths and her most favourite pair of stripper heels. Ness had looked pretty as a picture in her casket, and Wade had worn the tux she always said he should, the red one with the crisp white shirt and little black handkerchief. The priest hadn’t actually been a priest, it was a-uh um, a pundit? Yeah, a _pundit_ that Dopinder knew and got to come, a Hindu holy man or something?

Ness wouldn’t have cared, religion wasn’t her thing, but it didn’t feel right not having anyone there to say something for her. Dopinder came through though, with his pundit guy saying some stuff Wade couldn’t understand and letting them put some more flowers in with her.

 Wade wants to remember her like that, wrapped up in white with her hair curled all pretty, and lots of flowers. Not on the ground by their bed, staring at him with big, blank eyes, bleeding out in his arms. Not cold on the floor and already stiff by the time he came back to her. Not tinged blue in the morgue, not ever so dead the morning of. Wade wants to remember Vanessa Carlysle the way she looked in that casket while he held Dopinder’s hand.

 “Wade, Wade, you’ve been in there all day,” Piotr complains, knocking ever so politely on the door.

He’s got six guns within easy reach, he can fire three before Piotr breaks down the door and get to the sixth before the Iron Giant grabs him. Bullets don’t hurt good ole Piotr, he’s too strong for that, a real Russian boy. Wade can empty all his clips into that shiny metal frown and not make a dent, but he kinda wants to try.

Because why is he staying here? His heart isn’t growing, if anything it’s shrinking, which might be a rare and fatal disease that he should probably get checked. Hanging around all these kids who flinch when they say him, mask or not, is making him miserable. Catching glimpses of Negasonic Teenage Mutant Ninja Lesbian and Pinkie Pie aren’t helping either, and Dopinder has a harder time driving up here on the weekends.

Wease is really putting the poor guy through his paces at Sister Mags and he doesn’t have any time left over for Wade. Which Wade thought he’d be okay with because it’s better Dopinder learn the deadly merc biz far away from his angst. He doesn’t wanna hurt one of the only people he has left, and Wade knows he’s been hurting Dopinder. Guy hasn’t say anything, but he can see it in those pretty brown eyes, hear it in his voice.

Fuck, maybe _Wade’s_ the curse this time.  

“Wade! Come out and eat something, please!” Piotr yells, banging on the door, about fifteen seconds away from yanking it open.

He could put a bullet in his brain in five, eat a whole clip in twenty, what’d Big Red do then, huh? Scrape up his bloody bits and take him to the kitchen for a midnight snack? Leave him alone the way Wade’s been trying to be all day?

“Wade, I am coming in,” Piotr warns him, and Wade grabs one of his guns without thinking. He’s got a finger hooked on the trigger and the muzzle pressed to his lips when the door bursts open and Piotr fills the space like a really potent fart.

“No, no more of that Wade,” Piotr snaps, and snaps Wade’s wrist as he slaps the gun out of Wade’s hand.

The gun goes flying into the wall and Wade hears something important break, maybe the cocking mechanism, but he just scoffs. If Piotr thinks that’s the only gun Wade’s got in here, then he’s more naïve than he lets on. Which is really saying something cause Logan once convinced him, eggs didn’t exist in America.

“Can’t a guy enjoy himself around here? Rub one out, taste a little gun powder?” Wade mutters, flipping his broken wrist so the bones settle in place. They grind nastily but they set right so that’s good at least, rebreaking shit is a pain in the ass.

“No killing Wade, especially not yourself,” Piotr sighs, stooping down and gathering Wade up in his very big, very muscly arms. They’re actually pretty warm, warmer than slick metal has any right to be, and Wade’s traitor body leans into the touch without a fight. He gets cold so easy these days, must be the cancer acting up or something, or maybe that heart disease he’s got going.

Piotr sits them both down on Wade’s bed, which creaks but doesn’t break, proving Wheels spends top dollar on all the shit in his mutant halfway house. Wade’s in the big guy’s lap, curled up there like he’s not a full-grown man, and he rests his head back on a surprisingly comfortable metal shoulder. They stay like that for a few seconds, back to chest, just breathing, and Wade's reminded of a while that happened years ago in a place that doesn't exist anymore. 

Wade's about to fall back down into his pity hole when Piotr picks up the hand he broke and starts rubbing it, much gentler than metal should be able to.

“Listen, why do you care? You say we’re friends but no one else tries to stop me,” Wade mutters, petulant and whiny, like the kid he always is. He’s a brat cause he wants to fucking die and he can’t do it. The world is so unfair.

“They’re not strong enough,” Piotr answers casually, slowly moving up Wade’s hands, so he can crack each finger and massage the tenseness out of them. Wade cared maybe the first time, tried to take his hands away and backflip out the window, but he’s calmer now, or just too beaten down.

He’s tired, actually tired, and he didn’t think he could get tired after whatever the fuck happened to him. He misses Ness and he hates that it hurts so much, he lived without her before but before she wasn’t dead, just gone. He feels like he’s back in that fucking oxygen chamber, only it’s worse cause he can go wherever he wants except to hell.

And it’s double worse because there’s Dopinder who he loves, a lot, and there’s Al who he loves too, and there’s Piotr who’s sticking his neck out like this. No one else wants Deadpool around Xavier’s school for mutant babies, cause he’s too violent and he’s too vulgar and he’s a murderer and a very bad role model. Not to mention he looks worse than Beast after haircut and a shave day.

He's in a house full of mutants, half of whom do not look human, and somehow, he’s the ugliest motherfucker around. Might be for the best though, he’d hate for some innocent kid to be as fugly as this, at least he’s already grown and knows how to lay an unholy smack down on the haters.

“And you are?” Wade grumbles, switching out his hands so Piotr can do the other one.

“I try to be because I care about you Wade. You are my friend, I like you, and I want you to be happy here,” Piotr says quietly, squeezing Wade’s hand softly, and the music starts up in Wade’s head. A quiet hum-thrum beat with fuzzy-muzzy words he can’t make out.

The music fills up his lungs, helps him breathe, but it can’t fill the pit in his heart or the hole in his head. Nothing’s ever filled the hole, nothing ever can probably, it’s a bug that’s become a feature or something. God nerfed him because God always knew Wade Winston Wilson would become one badass motherfucker; a pre-emptive nerf was the only way to keep things legit.

The pit in his heart though, that one’s tougher. The pit’s where Ness clawed her way into him and carved out a space just for her, and he’s not sure if there’s enough concrete and tacos in the world to fill it up. The music though, the music helps him breathe around the pit, force his lungs to expand and push back against it, so it’s a start.

Not a great start, but it’s a start, and maybe it’s the start of another brief commercial-like calm. Fingers crossed.

* * *

Being ripped in half hurts. Getting something shoved through his head hurts. Shot in the heart and Cable’s to blame, baby he gives Wade, that bad pain.

Wade’s used to it though, could do with a little less hurty but it is what it is. And currently, what it is, is a militant mutant from some post-apocalypse, dystopian future that’d probably win Wade YA Novel Bingo. More accurately than that, it’s Cable “ _my name is **Nathan** , jackass_”, sitting on Al’s floor while Wade snorts a line of coke.

Al’s off to actual bingo, or so she says, and neither of them have anywhere else to go. Wade’s apartment is still cordoned off and Nate doesn’t have any 2018 money yet. Wease promised a few hits soon though and Wade promised Nate could get a generous 46% of the cut. So, they’re taking a break, their big CGI fight scene and tear jerker ending was just a week ago after all. They’ve gotta take a chance to reminisce and get as high as fucking possible.

“No drugs in the future? That’s rough buddy,” Wade mumbles, snorting another line right off his hand. Nate, cause he’s a good boy, sticks to drinking his shit beer and taking swigs of the whiskey Wade so generously stole from Sis MG’s.

Nate’s not such a bad guy when he’s not being a murderbot from the year 20-go-fuck-yourself, and he’s actually pretty relaxed once he’s drunk enough. Right now, for example, he doesn’t mind when Wade drapes himself all over him, half sitting in his lap while he does his best to get high. Wade’s currently at “ _pleasant buzz_ ” territory, everything’s fuzzier than it should be, and the depression-thoughts are resting at the very bottom of the cognitive chain.

He’s more relaxed than he’s been in weeks, including his very brief stint as an X-person. Ness is…well she’s out there, somewhere. If the writers had any brains, they’d make her Lady Death, so he could get his fuck on _and_ please millions of fans, but it’s whatever. Wade knows Ness is out there, she’s waiting for him in that place that smells like home and feels like heaven.

Doesn’t make the Ness shaped pit any less deep and hurty but it’s easier to breathe now. He’s got X-Force and an F-Word to look out for and lead down a morally dubious but ultimately good path. He’s got Dopinder to hold hands with and maybe make out a little, and he’s got Piotr to give him massages and start the music in his head.

Things are pretty good.

“Narcotics were regulated, needed them for surgery mostly, but the military high-ups were some coked up, cracked out motherfuckers. Rest of us made do with whatever we could find,” Nate explains, shifting and snorting when Wade goes tumbling into his lap. He must be past tipsy into ditsy territory because he doesn’t push Wade away, just moves him a little so he settles more comfortably.

“Sounds like now, it’s what we got busted for actually. My superiors were trying to move some shit out of Afghanistan and got caught, so they let us take the heat. It was some real Punisher shit,” Wade snorts, sniffling a little to get the blood out. This probably wasn’t the purest shit he could get but it’s potent, works for a nice little while, even with his metabolism and healing factor working against him.

Nate doesn’t say anything, just nods along and drops a hand on Wade’s face, the un-fun flesh one. For a second Wade thinks he’s gonna get shoved off, or a broken jaw so he’ll shut up for a while, but the un-fun fingers start stroking his jaw. It’s all slow and careful too, dipping into the bumps and moving whisper-soft over the ropey pieces.

It’s the complete opposite of the last time Nate touched his face, last time it was with the kinky robot hand, and it dislocated his jaw, chipped a few teeth. Can’t say he doesn’t prefer this though, less hurty is always nice.

“Aliya, my wife, used to brew up the nastiest shit in unusable rain barrels. Tasted like old rat piss, but we were happy to drink it,” Nate huffs, Wade might go so far as to call it a laugh. A real, genuine laugh from Mr T-1000 himself, and it’s nice, gruff and perfectly sexy.

“She’d use these scrawny potatoes she grew out in the ashy dirt, no one could eat them, so she fermented them. First time I drank some, thought I’d never stop spitting up my stomach lining,” Nate laughs, definitely laughs, and it’s not even sad. Well duh, he’s not sad, his wife’s alive. Technically she was never dead, Nate just can’t get back to her.

Nate can’t get back to Aliya, Wade can’t get to Ness, they’re both in the world’s longest distance relationships ever, and that’s kinda funny. Funny in the “ _my life is horseshit_ ” and in the “ _god that’s depressing, you sad bastard_ ” ways.

“Sh-she told me I couldn’t hold my liquor, and vomited on my boots,” Nate chuckles, gazing off into the distance with a genuine smile on his grizzled old face. He’s actually handsome like that too; less haunted, less stabby.

He reminds Wade of an older military man, one who dedicated his life to his country until his country finally decided to give a little back. He looks like a retired general, one who kept up his figure over the years and figured out that he didn’t need a stick up his ass all the time. He looks relaxed, _happy_ , and…fuck. Nate's looking exactly like Wade's type, self-sacrificing, handsome, not afraid to do the hard shit to make the world a little better. He's sooo fucked. 

“Ness did that once, it was her uncle’s death-aversary, and we got black out drunk together. Woke up in a puddle of vomit and cake,” Wade mumbles, smiling wistfully. It hurts less to talk about her now, hurts less to hold Dopinder’s hand and kiss Piotr’s cheek…doesn’t hurt at all to be in Nate’s lap.

He knows somewhere out there, in one of his many comic runs, there’s a Cablepool team-up so strong it’s like a marriage. He doesn’t know details, but he knows they’re a great team, one of the best, and he knows the divorce is pretty fucking ugly. This ain’t that though, they’re just starting out here, and maybe since their start’s so different this time, their ending can be too? Maybe they don’t have to end at all.

“That’s disgusting,” Nate grunts but that smile’s still playing across his lips and his fingers are still stroking Wade’s face. He’s doing it so casual too, like it’s a regular thing for them and he didn’t shank Wade in the dick when he tried something like this. Talk about double standard, now that was the true homophobia in these movies. Two men couldn’t hug without some cheap joke to lampshade it.

“Boo movie execs,” Wade grumbles, patting at the table for another bag of coke. The buzz is wearing off again and he’s slowly come back up to “ _dangerously sober_ ”. If he’s gonna do this, he needs to be at “ _normal human overdose_ ”, or over, he’s not gonna look a gift drug mule in the mouth.

“You’re an idiot,” Nate sighs, pulling one of Wade’s baggies over with the telekinesis the movie was _way_ too subtle with. How were non-fanboys supposed to know TK was responsible for the BFG always coming back to Cable? That could’ve been magnets and a very loyal gun.

“I could be _your_ idiot little big guy, just say the word,” Wade jokes, well he’s saying it in his joke voice and whoops he’s spilled his whole baggie on his face. Rats, now he can’t talk until he’s finished snorting all this shit, tragic.

Nate rolls his eyes, but he keeps smiling and the hand on Wade’s face slips down to his chest, to where he slipped the token. Wade’s got that token in his pocket now, it’s still going everywhere with him, and the bullet’s coming with. Nate prods a little, finds a divot where the skin’s all puckered and pocked, then drags his fingers across Wade’s chest. 

“Is this what the kids call ‘ _swiping right_ ’?” Nate asks, lips quirked up in that shit eating grin and holy fuck that is the worse come on Wade’s ever heard.

“Holy fuck that’s bad,” Wade snickers, then coughs because cocaine, lots of cocaine.

“Guess you’ll have to teach me, handsome,” Nate shrugs, patting Wade’s chest when he laugh-coughs-hacks.

Fuck, this is ridiculous. Nate’s spouting some terrible fucking pick-up lines and Wade’s sucking down raw coke with every snorting laugh. It’s a fucking mess, furthest thing from romantic, but it’s fucking perfect.

* * *

Things are easier when there’s more than one person who cares about making sure he stays in one piece. There’s Dopinder who’ll take him on long drives in the middle of the night, hours and hours of quiet streets and soft music, soft hands and sweet kisses. There’s Piotr who’ll physically hold him together, trapped in metal arms, held in a metal lap, with the music playing quiet in his head. There’s Nathan who’ll drag him off to kill some fuckers, whoever needs un-aliving so the future doesn’t shit itself to death.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have bad days, or that the fucking wasps in his brain stop stinging. Doesn’t mean they don’t fight, bite and scratch at each other like misbehaving dogs. Doesn’t mean there aren’t days Wade just takes off and falls right off the fucking map.

Doesn’t mean today’s not one of those days.

“Got a hole in my heart pretty baby,” Wade sings, voice hoarse and cracking while the fire creeps closer.

“Got hole in my heart can’t you see,” he keeps going though cause he doesn’t give a fuck. His throat’s raw, from screaming, from yelling, from choking on chemicals and breathing in smoke while he hacked and slashed his way through this fucking mutant torture camp.

He doesn’t know who’s in charge, what obscure villain from 199-fuck-you, is getting dredged up for a blink-and-miss-it cameo, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He got the job from a friend of a client, someone got stiffed on a deal and Deadpool gets sent in to send a message. He probably wasn’t supposed to burn the fucking thing to the ground but it’s basically his M.O by now.

He burned the Weapon X knock off down, burned down Essex house, anything involving mutants and illegal shit gets burnt. It should be the Deadpool guarantee, yeah, he could even put it on business cards.

“Should’ve known pretty baby, that you were gonna be the end of me.”

And why the fuck is he singing? He should be running, not singing like some Jean Valjean wanna-fucking-be.

Then he looks down and remembers, that oh yeah, lost a leg back in one of the rooms. Got slammed into some glass and then fell through and his leg just popped right off. So now he’s crawling down a hall, using the wall to off-set his missing leg, and to avoid more smoke. Fuck, it’s really getting thick in this bitch.

“So, tell me why would a lady bring the heat?”

Wait fuck, he’s mixing up his lines here, shit. He’s got exactly five bullets left in his last gun, the desert eagle to be precise and those should put him out of his misery long enough not to feel the burning. If it comes down to it, he can use his katanas, he’s still got those. They’re stuck through his belt though, lost the holsters somewhere back in the third room, the one they filled with that stupid gas that burned his skin.

God, he better get paid extra for this job. He didn’t just send a message, he took a piss on their fucking graves. Every single person in this place is dead, scientists, doctors, janitorial staff, all dead. He probably could’ve eased back on the janitors, but they knew what was going on here, they cleaned the once-people-sludge off the floors, they deserved what they got.

“I hear the shots ringing out pretty baby.”

The fire’s a mistake though, Wade didn’t mean to cut open that gas tank, and how was he supposed to know a lone gunshot would make the whole thing go boom? Every action movie ever maybe, so it’s his fault, sue him.

Actually no, please don’t, he likes his money, a lot. He’s not a selfish, miserly bastard like some people, but he likes the blood money he makes, and he likes the drugs and guns he can get with it. He’ll need to restock after this mission too, so he really likes his money, please no sue.

“I hear the shots ringing out in the night.”

No, he doesn’t. There’s no shots anymore, everyone’s dead, and he will be too if the fire catches up to him. Not that he hasn’t lived through a fire before, he has, and survived, doesn’t mean he wants a fucking repeat. Fire’s bad, melts his skin, boils his blood, ever felt your flesh falling right off your bones? Not fucking pleasant.

Then there’s the regrowing. Bones repairing themselves, then muscles and tendons and fat restringing along the skeleton, blood rushing back in, nerves flaring to life. He’ll get a whole five minutes of nice, smooth skin and blissful, painless glee, then his skin will reform proper like and the cancer’ll come back with it.

“What a sound oh baby, hit the ground pretty baby, out of sight.”

At the pitiful rate he’s going, he’ll get to the access elevator in twenty minutes, and the fire’ll get him in ten, maybe eight. With his abysmal luck the whole place’ll collapse after the fire guts it, compromised structural integrity and the oxygen vacuum will be enough to bring it all down. Then, he’ll have to wait for his body to reform, pushing and shoving itself in the spaces between the rubble.

After that, good ole Deadpool’s gonna have to dig his way out of this mess. Might take days, closer to a week, week and a half. Word’ll get back to his employer and they’ll assume him dead, refuse to pay him when he shows up, and he might have to threaten them too.

Fuck, it’s gonna be a shit show, but he should be used to that right? Writers loved to fuck with him, brief commercial like calm meet oncoming train wreck.

“Got a hole in my head pretty baby,” he croaks, slipping in his own blood, falling and cracking his chin against the floor. Spits out a few tooth fragments and just lies there for a second.

His lungs are working overtime to get enough air, fire’s eating up most of it but there’s just enough left over for him. Maybe not a lot though cause his head feels like it’s stuffed up with cotton balls and his tongue’s all gross and heavy in his mouth as he whispers the words to the song.

Why’s he singing? He’s not sure. Music just follows him now, the soundtrack of his life. Music during fights, pounding in his bones and jumping in his blood, pushing him faster, shoving him harder. Music when things are grim and serious, a slow and steady thrum in the back of his head, bouncing off his skull and helping him focus on what the fuck’s going on.

Music now, when he’s about to die again. Is this some Greek tragedy shit or what? He’s got his own tragic chorus, popping in and out of existence just so he can know how bad he fucked up. How convenient and thoughtful of them, they really fucking shouldn’t have.

“Got a hole in my head, and the blood’s running red ‘cause of you.”

Wade’s not sure if those count as words anymore, he’s just mouthing them cause he can’t manage anything else. He should keep moving, keep crawling and at least make it almost to the elevator before he gets crisped. Ha, crisped up like a bug, or a spider. Did Spidey ever get burnt up and crushed?

Wade’s not sure, there was that time he was crawling away from Anti-Venom though and died but not really because the writers loved that melodramatic shit. The Death of Spider-Man had such a nice ring to it, big and bold with all the nice raised stakes to go with it. The Death of Deadpool was just hackneyed and lame, he died every other week, whenever it was cinematic enough or funny enough.

Audiences were fucked, and so’s he. His leg’s still bleeding for some reason, glass? There’s probably glass stuck in the meat of his stump, stopping everything from healing up. Or his body’s too busy trying to filter through the smoke and burning chemicals to bother with a limb. Fuck.

“Deadpool?”

Ah fuck, now this is the universe where he gets the fucking boxes. Fucking movie execs and writers not reading the fucking comics. Didn’t they know the boxes got written out of the continuity like a bunch of issues ago? No boxes, no teleporter, he’s just a merc with a mouth and a shit load of weapons now.

“Deadpool!”

And why do the boxes gotta sound like two guys? Now, he’s gotta noting against a nice hunka man but couldn’t he get some soothing dulcet tones? Wanda probably had lady boxes, lucky slut.

“Fuck’s sake, get your ass in gear,” one of his brand-new boxes…voices? Oh god was he going to be Marvel’s newest foray into the wildly incorrect world of mental health issues and illnesses? Wasn’t getting compared to the Joker enough already?

“I know you can hear me, jackass, get up,” voice #1 grunts, and what’s the point? The fire’s like right there, he can feel the heat starting to charbroil his skin. Soon it’ll be here and start melting his suit into his skin.

“Pick him up,” voice #1 tells, well probably tells voice #2 though Wade’s got no idea how that’s gonna work, they’re just voices. Unless the writers wanna get fancy and give him some a dissociative identity disorder so one Wade takes over while the other one’s out cold. He’ll put money on the “ _in charge Wade_ ” referring to himself as Deadpool and Deadpool exclusively.

“Professor wants us to look for survivors,” voice #...3? Wow, there’s so many voices now, he’s not sure he can keep track of all of them, but at least this new one is less gruff macho man and more gruff macho lady. Finally, the representativity he deserved!

“Xavier can get fucked, he’s the only one left,” voice #1 growls as Wade gets lifted into big strong arms. Which ugh no mistake, put him back down.

“Down, down,” he whines weakly, tasting blood in his mouth from uhhh shit were his lungs bleeding or something? God, he hates chemical fires, always doing weird shit to poor insides, and now he’s up in the thick of the smoke. There was a fucking reason he was crawling on the ground like a spider that got sprayed with Raid.

“We have to look!” voice #5 complains and huh Wade knows that voice, bubbly, happy, pink, Yukio? What’s Yukio doing here?

“Out, fire’s coming,” Wade slurs, grunting when his leg finally gets its shit together and starts healing. He can feel splintered bone pieces getting shoved out of the way as the new one comes in and he can barely hear the _plink-plonk-clink_ of glass falling on the floor.

He can also just barely hear the fire raging up to get them, them presumably being X-Force. He recognises the voices and he knows the pair of arms he’s being held by, but he can’t really see. His eyes keep tearing up and bleeding, there’re chemicals in his face? Fuck he should wash those out.

“You heard him, we have to go,” voice- _Colossus_ says and finally they start moving which oh god, “the professor will understand.”

Wade still can’t see as he’s carried along the same corridor he snuck down a few hours ago. He can hear metal groaning and fire roaring, but he can’t see everyone next to him. He knows Colossus is carrying him, hear the _thunk-thunk-clunk_ of heavy metal feet on concrete, and he knows Cable’s someone behind them. There’s this weird whirr noise, like a bad computer fan getting ready to smoke up, and two more feet steps running next to them.

“You go first,” Colossus says in his super strict, “ _I’ll be disappointed if you don’t listen to me_ ” voice and the softer feet steps head into the elevator. Wade figures those are Yukio and Never Gonna Give You Up, while Mr Voice #1 stays down with him and the Iron Giant.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Wilson,” Cable aka Voice #1 aka Honey Pie grunts and Wade flops like the dead fish he is. Everything hurts, like usual, but at least they’re a little further away from the fire. He’d hate for any more of his lovey-dovies to die cause of him.

“Is fine now, we found him,” Colossus says but Wade can hear that patented Russian disappointment. Whoopsie doodle, now who’d gone and made the big guy all sad?

“Think this is a fucking game Wilson? Running off like a god damn moron and leaving us to find you? You think we’ll just drop everything to come find you when you pull this shit?” Cable snarls, grabbing Wade’s flopping hand and tucking it between Colossus’ chest and his own body. Wow his body feels bad, charred, sensitive, achey, he’s gonna need a shit ton of coke after this.

Then Cable’s mouth words catch up with his stuffed-up head and fuck, that’s mean. Wade sniffles under the mask, coughs to clear his throat, but wow that’s _mean._ And fair, it’s fair too. He didn’t _expect_ X-Force to come looking for him but uh maybe he should’ve said not to come looking? Or said anything at all, left a message, sent a carrier pigeon?

Ah fuck, now he feels bad for making Cable worry, cause that’s what’s going on here. Cable’s worried and he’s lashing out; it’s a typical “ _I love you don’t you fucking worry me like that_ ” scenario. And there’s Colossus too, double fuck, Wade’s already breaking that guy’s heart by being a murder happy lunatic.

Great. His body’s all fucky-wucky and now he’s making his boy toys all sad-mad, this day sucks. Next time, he’ll get a mission in a whole other country and go in under a fake name, yeah, a moustache, some hi-tech cloaking and no one’d ever know it was him.

“We will, we’ll fucking hunt you down, so we can personally kick your ass,” Cable mutters, smacking his regrowing leg, but it’s not hard, it’s a mere love tap. Compared to what that robo hand can do, it’s barely a brush of fingers.

“Time to go,” Colossus says, and they all crowd into the elevator, well Colossus and Cable crowd, Deadpool gets to lay pretty in those beefy metal arms. He can hear the fire racing towards them, sucking up the last of the air and fighting to get out of the underground bunker. Ah fuck, he forgot that this was the only way out, a single shaft straight up to the cover business.

“Gonna have to run,” Wade grumbles, wiggling his stump experimentally. He’s got exactly one eight of a thigh that he could hobble along on if it really came down to it. He can’t trust that Colossus’ll be able to carry him if they gotta book it, and he’s the most obvious choice to leave behind. He can be ballast.

“Shut your fuck hole,” Cable grunts and Wade can just make out a blurry Cable smacking something on his metal arm. A little ‘ _beep!’_ goes off then a loud ‘ ** _boom!_ ’** hits them. The whole elevator’s rocking and shaking, lights a-flickering, tummy’s a-hickering, ohh baby they’re going down down.

Only, they’re not. The elevator stops but it doesn’t go plummeting back down into the inferno. The fire’s quiet now, further away, and Wade blinks some more tears out of his eyes so he can stare at Cable.

He set charges in their only way out? Who does shit like that? When did he even get the chance? What the fuck?

“Telekinesis dumbass,” Cable answers the unspoken question and the elevator starts moving again. Slower, not as smooth, it’s all hurky-jerky, and since Wade can see better now, he can see the strain around Cable’s mouth. He’s moving them, using his TK since the power probably cut in that entirely comic accurate explosion.

Wade wants to make a joke, he’s gotta make a joke, but he’s still tired. His head is only half full of cotton fluff now, and the music is quieter, but he can hear Céline Dion singing her heart out in the background. God, he hopes they got this on camera too, what a great mini-adventure in between the big budget shit.

Yeah, something short and sweet, a lil tease to keep the audience hot and bothered.

“Oh good, he’s rambling,” NTW huffs and woah when did she get there? Wait, when did they get outside? Where’s the stupid offices with the most atrocious layout he’s ever seen?

“Get in jet, I’ll put him in the back,” Colossus orders, completely in his element for once. Oh yeah, the only time he gets to call the shots is when Wade’s completely in and out of consciousness. Little did he know, Wade was coming back soon for that hot n’ spicy trilogy cash. He’d be calling all the shits again soon.

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” Cable sighs, helping Colossus strap Wade into the X-Wing’s lil med cot. It’s actually pretty big, meant for all the big players and not the regular guys like him, ha Cable’d look super small in this thing.

The man himself is strapping into the seat next to the cot and Colossus is, well he’s stroking Wade’s head through the mask. He’s clearly being careful about it too, holding back all that super sexy strength so he doesn’t crush Wade’s super fragile human skull. He appreciates the sentiment, growing back brains is annoying and gross, he feels like a zombie while it happens.

“We will talk more later, I am glad you’re safe,” Colos-oh no that’s Piotr, his Iron Giant of _lurv_. Piotr who’s gonna lecture him when they get home then refuse to let him go for the next hour, two hours? He’s gonna have to listen to why talking about feelings are better than stomping them down and running while he gets massaged within an inch of his life.

Oh, the horror.

“Ready for take-off,” Yukio calls and Piotr gives Wade one last pet before he goes to help his mutant babies get this bird in the air.

“Dopinder’s waiting at the bar, he’s gonna have something to say about this too,” Nate mutters, picking up right where Piotr left off, only he takes off the Masktm and looks Wade in the eye. His fingers are warm against Wade’s bare scalp, gentle, but his eyes are hard, boo.

“Yeah well, he’s used to my shit, him and Big Brother over there’ll forgive me,” Wade mutters as the plane lurches then bottoms out. Getting here took about seventeen hours, three of which were in a plane, then various bus connections, taxis and one very confused donkey ride. The front’s a regular lab, says it’s big pharma, but Wade loves making an entrance. The X-Wing was probably parked in stealth mode out in the parking lot, no one’s gonna notice them taking off.

The Wing’s faster than Wade’s many convoluted traveling modes so they’ll be home in four hours tops. He can’t wait.

“Wade, I’m not mad, Aliya used to pull the same shit,” Nate scoffs, one of those wry, complicated smiles tugging on his lips. From this angle, his scars make him look younger, somehow, and Wade wonders if this is how he looked when he met his girl. The girl he's always comparing Wade to in a really weird, flirty way.

“She’d go shoot something to make herself feel better instead of talking about it,” Nate explains, fingers whisper soft on Wade’s head, and Wade sniffles. If anyone asks, he’s gonna blame it on the fucking chemicals that are mostly gone now. No one needs to see him crying, it’s ugly and there’s snot and way too many hitching breaths, it’s not pretty. And he’s already fugly enough without ugly crying, he’d leave that to the various spider-men.

“Next time, leave a fucking message. I don’t care if I have come get you but I'm not a tracker Wilson,” Nate complains, reaching up to wipe away the chemical induced tears at the corner of Wade's eye. Totally chemical, all chemical, those weren't even real tears. 

 "Yeah yeah, you're just saying that so I don't figure out your evil Skynet connected plan," Wade says, voice thick with the chemical tears he's not going to cry. He's not gonna do it, not a fucking chance, not until he's back home in his crocs and a little less ehhh. Crying during super emotional scenes never looked good, no matter what anyone thought, ruined the impact. Single tears people, tear stains and tracks, no blubbering. 

"Maybe I am," Nate answers, winking that sexy robot eye, and stroking Wade's cheek.

And Nate's there, right there, touching him and humouring him the way a lot of people didn't. And Piotr's at the controls, flying them all home, probably worrying about everything. And Dopinder's waiting for them at the bar with a blowjob and a lecture. And Ness is, well she's waiting. 

And it's working, all of it is working. Took some finesse, some work, and it's nothing like a Hallmark card or cheesy rom-com, but it's just as good. Fuck no, _it's better_. 

**Author's Note:**

> I watched DP 2 super duper cut version about 8 times already and decided that polyamorous Wade Wilson was just something the world needed. Originally this was gonna include Spider-Man, comic version maybe, but I blanked on his section so it's strictly Wade's movieverse loves. And I do believe he loves each person here, he's warming up to Cable fast after that super romantic save his life move. 
> 
> If people are interested, I can add Spidey in a second chapter, or another fic that's connected to this one. Tell me what you think.


End file.
